Little Boxes
by chatnoir
Summary: Drabble. Set during the beginning of season 3. You’re silently saying goodbye to Allison—packing her up into a neat little box and storing her next to your heart. HouseCameron angst.


**Title**: Little Boxes

**Author**: chatnoir

**Rating**: PG

**Pairings**: Cameron-centered; House/Cameron angst

**Warnings**: Language. But the show has worse language than this fic does.

**Word Count**: 859

**Summary**: Drabble. Set during the beginning of season 3. _You're silently saying goodbye to Allison—packing her up into a neat little box and storing her next to your heart._

**Disclaimer**: The characters and certain memory provoking phrases are not mine. They belong to _House, M.D._ and FOX, as well as its associates.

**A/N**: It's been years since I've written anything creative—and I literally mean _years_ (well… in English, I mean). My muse awoke last night, demanding that it be paid attention to, so this little thing is the result. That being said, this is my first House, M.D. fanfic, so I apologize if characters are OOC. This has been unbeta'd so all errors are mine, but I warn you, grammar is not my thing. I work in the sciences. Select phrases have been used in this story from the show, but I don't remember Episode names or numbers, and sometimes, I don't remember context either. And yes, I'm nervous posting this.

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He doesn't like you.

You've known that for quite some time and yet it hasn't been until recently that you've finally accepted that you cannot deal with that knowledge. He will never bend to you. You have to bend to him. It's your entire relationship. A constant stream of bends that you have created; a life of trying to live up to what he tells you is right and wrong. You find yourself bending so that you end up right, but now all you are is twisted and deformed. You constantly feel like you are wrong.

You look at yourself in the mirror in the mornings and you find that you no longer like what you see. You want to change. You need to change.

You're soft at the edges. You've always been described in words of kindness. _"Isn't she a dear?" "That was so thoughtful of you." "You're like a fuzzy teddy bear of niceness."_

You've always been described in words of beauty _"You're pretty." "You have such nice eyes." "Your hair—it's lovely!"_

But you don't want soft. You want hard. Severe. Jagged.

You want to punish him for making you change.

You don't want to be the lobby art. You want to be respected. You want to be right. And as much as you want to hide it, you want to be loved back; admired even.

So what can you change?

You decide to keep the running. As much as he likes your ass, you are not going to change the running. It's a necessity to keep your stress levels down around him. You run to forget the bending.

The softness needs to go. You book an appointment with your hairdresser of three years.

She's always happy to see you. She's always admiring your hair.

She frowns at you when you tell her you want to look older. (You don't tell her you want to look severe.) She runs her hands through your curls and watches as they bounce back. She asks you if you're sure.

Yes, you're sure you tell her. You are ready for her questions. You tell her that people don't take you seriously at work. They think you're too young to know what you're talking about.

You ask her to straighten the hair and to cut it a bit shorter.

You watch as understanding dawns in her eyes. No doubt other clients have asked for the same remedy to their problems.

She suggests a darker color as well and you agree. It's severe. You like it.

You hear the first snip and close your eyes. You're silently saying goodbye to Allison—packing her up into a neat little box and storing her next to your heart.

You open your eyes to mocking straight hair.

You look it over and still feel something missing. You still look too young, too polished, and too soft. You feel the need to cover yourself even more—you no longer want to feel as exposed to the world as you are now. You need to take away the emotions.

You tell the hairdresser what you want. She tells you right away that it's a bad decision.

You're insistent, so she relents. (The customer is always right.)

She hands you the mirror when she's done.

Hard. Jagged. Severe.

Perfect.

You're no longer the same as you were, physically. You're no longer the pretty girl you know he finds you to be. You're now the lobby art that crashed down onto the floor and was pieced back together again. No more softness. No more bends.

You go home with severity as your frame of mind. You need to get rid of the kindness that everyone loved about you. You want to appear world-ridden, like you have seen the world and have seen only the anger, the suffering, and the pain. You want an attitude that will surprise him. You want witty comebacks that you can make up on the spot. You want to be able to tell him exactly what you're thinking without flinching as you meet his eyes. You want that confidence you once used to have. You practice it so that you are changed, but you still can't help that little bit of naivety and gentleness that slips through your eyes.

Hello Dr. Cameron.

You feel Allison next to your heart pounding against the walls of the box and mourning your loss of humanity. You shush her quickly for fear that she will appear and ruin what you have already done.

You show up the next morning in a dark suit with straight, dark, jagged hair with bangs that ruins the balance of your face. You walk with momentum, each step carrying the weight of confidence. You're not bending.

He sees you and looks you up and down.

You see the humor in his eyes and the blossoming knowledge of what you have done to yourself for him.

Later, he sits down next to you as you look through the microscope. You're proud that you don't have a reaction.

"You have pretty hair."

You have failed.

And you feel yourself bending to him all the same.

_fin_


End file.
